Every Second Tuesday
by Boudicca's Revolt
Summary: Someone is about to declare his love. He's not very good at it.


Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns everything

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns everything. The excerpt at the beginning is from Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.

"_Tell you how, how you make  
Make me feel, what's the phrase  
Like a fool, kind of sick  
Special needs, anyways"_

He looked forward to every second Tuesday with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for holidays and large cuts of meat. He meticulously planned his wardrobe. He slept fitfully. He lost track of time . . . and his wrist watch. This Tuesday, however, was especially special. This Tuesday he was actually going to speak to her.

That morning, he had shampooed his hair twice because he wasn't entirely sure he'd done it the first time; he still wasn't completely sure he'd done it at all. He spent over half and hour in front of the mirror, smoothing on hair thickening serum and trying to decide if she would like him better with his glasses on or off. He finally decided he had better go with the glasses because he couldn't really see what he looked like without them. It took another half hour to figure out what he wanted to wear. He left the room in his best school robes and his favorite blue toaster socks.

There was a spring in his step as he walked out of Gryffindor tower. He practically bounced to breakfast. A couple of third years snickered as he skipped to Transfiguration. The day passed at once painfully slow and blissfully quick. Soon he was on his way to Hogsmeade, to the Three Broomsticks where she would be waiting. Today was the day, the day he would finally say hello. It was a nippy November day but he didn't feel the chilly wind at his back. He couldn't have cared less about his numb fingers, his prickling toes, his bright red, blistering nose.

When at last he stopped in front of the pub, a bubble started to expand in his stomach. He pushed the door open, plastering what he hoped was a determined look on his face. At first he could see very little then, when his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he combed the room. He couldn't find her so he took a seat with a clear view of the door. He ordered a butter beer and hunkered down. She would come.

A chill ran up his back every time the door opened. He was sure that the very next person to come in would be her. She wouldn't let him down. She wouldn't stand him up. By the time he'd been there for an hour and a half however, he began to get supremely antsy. That is, perhaps, why he reacted as he did when, just as he was about to give up and head back to Hogwarts, she walked through the door.

She was looking particularly pretty with her rosy nose and cheeks. Her deep red hair was tied neatly behind her in a long braid, a cream ribbon tied at the end. She was wearing neat gray robes with her school cloak pulled over his shoulders. Even as he took all of this in, he rose to his feet. He closed the distance between them in virtually no time at all. She looked up, startled, but he didn't leave her much time to react.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, glaring down at her.

"Excuse me?" she asked, taking a step back.

"I have been waiting here for an hour and a half. You're always here every second Tuesday between four and four thirty." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. His romantic declaration of love had turned creepy. He could see that this wasn't going to win her over. "I need to go," he mumbled, turning around on his heel. He knew that he was now blushing to the roots of his hair. He could feel his ears pulsating, could feel the burn creep over the back of his neck. He needed to go back to his dormitory and die.

"Arthur," she spoke. His heart stopped and he turned slowly, his red face now dead white. She knew who he was. Five minutes ago that would have made him delirious with happiness, now it caused a different type of delirium. "How do you know I come here every second Tuesday?" She asked tentatively. There was something in her eyes, something he should have been able to recognize-hope.

"I-I've kind of been, err, _watching_ you," Arthur murmured, studying his feet.

"Why?" She asked, stepping toward him.

Well, he thought, here goes nothing. "I-I love you Molly Prewett." The words were out. He had said them. Now it was her turn. The Quaffle was in her hands. He looked up at her, hoping against hope that he hadn't scared her off. He didn't care if she felt the same way but was there any way that she would give him a chance?

She stepped forward, took his hand and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek before turning toward the door and darting out, a wide smile fixed on her face and her red hair trailing behind her. This was yet another level of delirium.

A/N: My fic writing tends to be a bit bi-polar apparently. I wrote a sad, depressing fic so I had to write some fluff. This was inspired by "Laundry Day" in Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog which you should all say. REVIEW!!


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